


Come again?

by immoral_crow



Series: Inception Bingo Fills [9]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inception Bingo, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/pseuds/immoral_crow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots from a life together. Warning: contains porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come again?

**Author's Note:**

> And this is it, we are done. This is the last prompt, for the multiple orgasms square on my bingo card. 
> 
> Three things:  
> * I want to thank Trojie, who has been a tower of strength and amazing and I have missed this fandom SO DAMN MUCH.  
> * There are happy endings in this story - happy endings in all the ways. Because it's me, and I would never have left you with angst, right? Right!  
> * I am SO SORRY about the title. I did try to resist? Just... not very hard.

“Fuck this,” Arthur says, pushing Eames back until his shoulder is knocking the door with each thrust. “Fuck, Eames, I need…”

“Yeah.” Eames’s voice is thready, breaking; he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the bruises he can feel blooming on his skin, or the noise they’re making. He pushes back into Arthur, dizzy and desperate and finally, _finally_ there, and comes as Arthur sinks his teeth into the side of his neck, groaning. 

They’ve barely got their breath back – hell, Arthur has only just pulled out, leaving Eames slumped awkwardly, the sweat and come starting to cool uncomfortably on his body – when there’s a sharp banging on the door. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Cobb shouts, and if he doesn’t know the answer to that than Eames isn’t sure where to start. “We’re trying to work out here.”

Eames looks across at Arthur, fairly sure the expression of alarm he can make out in the dimness of the stationery cupboard is mirrored on his own face.

“You got anything?” Eames whispers, but Arthur shakes his head, biting his lip against the laughter that’s clearly welling up in him. 

Eames’s head makes a satisfying _thwunking_ noise when he bangs it back against the cupboard door. 

“Tell you what, mate,” he says, his voice raised enough that Cobb will be able to hear it. “If you and the team fuck off for half an hour, I’ll pay for drinks tonight.”

“For the next week,” Ariadne says, obviously next to Cobb, and Eames sighs, doing his best not to picture the assembled audience.

“Fine,” he shouts, “but for that we get an hour.” 

They wait until they hear the scuffle of shoes, the sound of the lift door opening, Ariadne shouting something like _good luck_ before her voice is suddenly stifled like someone’s put their hand over her mouth before they even start breathing again. 

“An hour?” Arthur says, his eyebrow raised in eloquent amusement. 

“Yeah.” Eames swings him up in his arms, fumbling the door open with his elbow. “Now…” He grins, arousal already building at the look on Arthur’s face. “What do you think about Cobb’s desk?”

—

 

“Go on,” Eames says, nipping at the shell of Arthur’s ear, keeping his thrusts as small, as shallow as he can. “Say it.”

“Say what?” Arthur asks, straining up against him. Eames tightens his grip on Arthur’s wrists. 

“Say the words,” he says, fighting for control of his voice, fighting not to just push into Arthur where he’s pliant and wanting under him. “Say them for me.”

“Fine,” Arthur says, and to give him credit he hides the curve of his smile in the skin of Eames’s cheek. “I do.”

“Yeah?” Eames asks and Arthur kisses him.

“Of course I fucking do, you idiot.” He twists, wicked and lithe as an eel as he topples them over and pushes Eames down onto the bed, sinking slowly down onto his cock. “Anyway…” There a line that appears on Arthur’s forehead when he’s concentrating all his effort on something; Eames does not call this line _cute_ – not even in the privacy of his own head – because he likes his kneecaps where they are, thank you very much. “It’s too late now, isn’t it?”

He smiles at Eames, all dimpled innocence until you see his eyes, and Eames groans, lost. 

“Everyone heard me say them earlier,” Arthur says, leaning forward, starting to ride Eames in earnest, and _god_ but this won’t last long. “You’re stuck with me now.” 

_Yes_ Eames means to say, but the sound comes out broken and Arthur swallows it from his lips, spilling hot and slick between them. 

—

 

Arthur hates the jobs that keep them apart. He doesn’t say it of course – that would be foolish, sentimental. Anyway, if he waits long enough Eames will say it for him. 

But the older he gets the more he misses home, the more he misses Eames… and the more likely he’s becoming to indulge in small comforts. 

Comforts like going home at weekends if he can, meeting up with Eames in local towns when he can’t. Like keeping a phone that no one in this world can trace or call – except Eames (and, for some horrific reason, Eames’s mother). 

And this job is _awful_ – bleak and difficult and dragging on weeks past when it was meant to be completed, and they’re so far north in Canada that Arthur suspects it’s _south_ again, and there are no towns nearby, no hope of a visit, and no way out, bar the biplane which isn’t scheduled to come for another month yet.

Which is probably why he’s developing a Pavlovian response to the ringtone Eames set on the phone before Arthur left. 

He’s forty, for fuck’s sake. He’s too old for this shit in general, and certainly too old to be getting hard because his filthy-minded reprobate of a husband is calling him on a shitty Nokia. 

None of which stops him sprinting for his bunk as soon as the phone starts ringing, hitting the button to connect and hoping that the connection will last longer than three minutes this time. 

“You’re breathless,” Eames says when Arthur answers. “You started without me?”

“No,” Arthur says, his voice breaking on a laugh as he shoves his trousers down with his free hand and flops onto the bunk. Just…” He checks he’s alone, lowers his voice. “I miss you.” 

Eames’s laughter is warm and fond. 

“I miss you too,” he says. “But you’ll be home soon.”

“It’s weeks.” Arthur can hear the petulance in his own voice, but he doesn’t care. He’s cold here; he doesn’t like the soap; he misses Eames. 

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Eames says. “When you get back.”

“You’ll make it worth my while now,” Arthur says, the words coming out as a growl. “Or so help me…”

“It’s the sweet-talk I miss most,” Eames muses and Arthur wraps his hand around his cock and moans. “Or maybe not,” Eames finishes smoothly. “Tell me, darling, do you need this?”

“So much,” Arthur grits out, and Eames hums. 

“Tell me,” he says, and Arthur can’t bite back the noise he makes at that. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Arthur manages, his hand speeding up, because there’s a time and a place for staying power, and a bunk in an unlocked dorm room in a research station is neither. “I want to fuck you. I want your mouth around my cock. I want…” He breaks off, picturing Eames looking up at him from under his eyelashes, his swollen lips wrapped around Arthur’s cock. “God.” 

It’s all Arthur needs, apparently, and he comes, shuddering, over his fist while Eames makes encouraging noises down the miles of phone line. 

It’s only when Arthur’s finished that Eames clears his throat. 

“You know,” he says conversationally, “there is an obvious solution to this problem.”

“Yeah.” Arthur closes his eyes, tired, because it’s the conclusion he’s been coming to as well. 

“And it’s not like either of us _needs_ the money right now,” Eames continues, probably reciting the words by rote, he’s said them so often. 

“You’ve said,” Arthur replies, then, when Eames sighs: “Hey.” He opens his eyes, looks at the bottom of the bunk above him, thinks about how long it will be before he gets home again. “We’ll give it a try.”

“Really?” It takes a lot to shock Eames, but Arthur seems to have managed it. He tries to hide his triumphant smile, because Eames seems to _know_ these things. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Why not.” 

Eames makes a small happy noise, and Arthur, smiling in response, just listens to his breathing until it’s time to hang up. 

—

Retirement sex is _excellent_ in Eames’s not so humble opinion. 

For a start no one is shooting at you while you have it. Well, unless you count that time in the woods with the hunters, and to be fair they’d thought Eames was a particularly virile stag, so that was practically a compliment. 

Then there’s the fact that there’s no work to get in the way of having it. Apart from the odd consultancy job, that is (and since most of the consultancy jobs Eames takes are for Yusuf _odd_ is the least of it) but the joy of consultancy is that a) you get to set your own hours and b) NO ONE IS SHOOTING AT YOU. 

And the experience, Eames thinks, settling back in his beach chair and reaching for his drink. It has umbrellas and fruit in it. It is a holiday drink. Experience is a much underrated phenomenon, and he harbours dark suspicions that anyone who starts sleeping with someone half their age (Saito for an example) is probably doing it wrong. 

Mostly though, the best thing about retirement sex is Arthur. Arthur who’s walking across the beach towards him right now, his own monstrosity of a drink in one hand, book in the other. Arthur whose hair is now salt and pepper at the temples, and whose waist has only thickened the ever-so-slightest bit over the years. Arthur who is still wicked and inventive and can do things with his tongue that no other living man can do – Eames will testify to that in any court in the land. 

“What are you smiling at?” Arthur asks, sounding suspicious – unfairly so, if you ask Eames who has done nothing more shocking than to spend the morning in the sunshine playing an instructive game of cards with some German tourists who happened to pass by. 

“Nothing,” Eames says, then, when Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, changes tack and says “You.” 

“Good things, I trust,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t sound worried and Eames toasts him with his nearly-finished drink. 

“Mostly,” he says, putting the glass down on the sand next to him, “I was wondering if we had time for a quick moment before lunch.”

Arthur purses his lips and cocks his head to the side. 

“There’s sand,” he says. “And bugs.” 

“There are,” Eames agrees affably. “But I’ll make it worthwhile if you do.” 

The next group of tourists that wander past pointedly do not stop for a game of cards, although one enterprising youth takes some very instructional photos that Ariadne finds on tumblr within minutes of them being posted.

They look fantastic stuck to the fridge, Eames thinks, and judging from Arthur’s response when he sees them, he agrees.


End file.
